


Thanks Giving

by theroguesgambit



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: (mostly) Canon Compliant, Developing Relationship, Fluff, M/M, Minor Angst, Pack Bonding, Post Season 2, holiday themed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-26
Updated: 2014-11-26
Packaged: 2018-02-27 01:59:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,284
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2674631
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theroguesgambit/pseuds/theroguesgambit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I was thinking we could all do with some sort of reconciliation. Like a… breaking bread, mending fences, get to know you and burying totally metaphorical hatchets type dinner.”</p><p>Derek’s gaze drags up at that and Stiles flashes him a fast grin, warming back up to his own idea.</p><p>“So what do you say to a big, no murders allowed, multi-pack Thanksgiving?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Thanks Giving

**Author's Note:**

> My writers' network on Tumblr prompted "Sterek Thanksgiving," and here's what I came up with.

“You’re joking right now.” It’s not even a question, doesn’t remotely sound like a question, and Stiles falters in the entryway as Derek stares him down – dark brows and long lines of tension, not even attempting to hide the Alpha red flash in his eyes.

“Um… no?” And then, seeing Derek’s eyes skate off behind him, “Just me here.” As though he wouldn’t have been able to hear or smell Scott anyway.

Some of the tension eases out of Derek’s shoulders, but his jaw doesn’t come out of its stubborn set.

“So you’re playing messenger then?”

Stiles sighs, falling the rest of the way through the doorway.

“No, dude. I’m actually my own person. Sometimes I even think and talk and go visit people all on my own.”

His own eyes slip past Derek into the dim, ashen house. Derek, after a moment, huffs.

“Just me here.” He throws Stiles’ own words back at him easily, almost carelessly, but Stiles can see the tension behind them.

Derek’s betas have been acting shiftier than usual around school, constantly on edge since the whole Gerard incident. Since Boyd and Erica had been imprisoned by the Argents and gotten free – just barely decided to rejoin Derek’s pack instead of fleeing town altogether. It isn’t surprising they aren’t hanging around the Hale house in their free time. It sounds like none of them are speaking much these days. _No one’_ s speaking much to anyone, honestly.

Jackson and Lydia have been isolating themselves ever since Jackson’s recovery, refusing to train with either Scott or Derek. Isaac is still Derek’s beta, but his forming friendship with Scott is causing an obvious strain on both ends. Allison isn’t talking to anyone except Lydia, even though she probably needs a friend right now more than anyone. She refuses to let Scott reach out to her, avoids Boyd and Erica’s gazes, and seems to think anything Stiles says is just him acting as a spy for Scott.

Which, sure, he is about half the time, but he’s also worried about the girl. She’d gone a little darkside for a while there, but Stiles honestly can’t blame her. She’d lost a lot in the past few months, had her world flipped upside down more than pretty much anyone.

And now here Derek is, acting like Stiles is a spy too. And this time he actually isn’t.

“You’re the one I’m looking for,” he shoots back after too long a pause, and sets his gaze back on Derek in time to catch the quick surprised dance his brows pull off. “I was thinking we should do dinner.”

And Derek’s brows are in motion again, a fast and furious, startled dance that carries on until Stiles replays his words and actually _hears_ them.

And… crap, he’d just asked Derek Hale out, hadn’t he?

He might be on a mission to make amends here, but that definitely was _not_ on the agenda.

“I… not… I didn’t mean like ‘we should do dinner.’ Just… look, everything sucks right now, you know? This whole great divide going on between you and Scott—“

“His fault,” Derek grits, and Stiles hates that he can’t one hundred percent disagree. He might be slightly mildly pissed at Scott, himself. Might slightly possibly get why Derek’s so tense about the whole ‘Scott’ subject in general… and that’s even more reason to get things smoothed out between them. Because whatever stupid secret master plans Scott decides to throw together when he’s playing super-wolf, there’s no way in hell Stiles can ever side with Derek against him.

So it would make his own internal compass a hell of a lot happier if Scott and Derek could just make up already. Then Stiles won’t take one look at Derek’s sad indignant face and feel the temptation to spit out something like—

“It was a dick move, ok? The whole Gerard thing, not warning you ahead of time, that was a dick move.”

Crap. Like that.

Derek’s defensive scowl startles right off his face, and he’s looking at Stiles suddenly like he’s not sure what to think of him. Like he’s never thought of Stiles as his own person who’s capable of disagreeing with Scott on anything until now. Stiles thinks maybe he should be insulted, or maybe he should just be pleased that he’s _finally_ made an impression. Until Derek starts in with:

“It was. He was completely—“

And Stiles has to cut him off, hands flailing up. (They’d been doing so well.)

“No, shut up. Stop. He did what he thought was right and you don’t get to say otherwise, ok?”

Which seems to totally baffle Derek.

“But you just said—“

“That’s right, _I_ said it.” Stiles spares a second to actually feel bad for Derek. Has the guy never had a best friend? Does he have _any_ concept of the bro code? “ _I_ can say things like that. I’ve lived through ten years of friendship and backing Scott through sometimes terrible decisions for that privilege. But you say anything against him and I’m gonna have to punch you in your stupid Alpha wolf jaw and probably break my hand in the process, so can we just skip that inevitable pain and humiliation and just get to why I’m here?”

Derek’s still staring at Stiles like he’s this bizarre new species or something, eyes strangely off guard and puzzled. But he finally jerks his head in a slow nod.

“You’re here about… dinner.”

“Yeah.” Stiles licks his lips, stalling because under the weight of Derek’s gaze, the echo of his flash of anger against Scott, it suddenly seems like a supremely stupid idea. But he’s made it all the way here, the suggestion already hanging there, just waiting for elaboration, and… “Things are quiet right now, Derek. They could actually be, you know, peaceful for a little while if everyone would just stop avoiding and hating and generally being at each others’ throats. I don’t think _anyone_ ’s really happy with each other right now, except maybe Lydia and Jackson, and you know, just screw them and their whole true love miracle crap.” He pauses, waiting maybe for Derek to respond, snort, agree, whatever. But Derek’s lips have just thinned out, his eyes drifting to the ashen floor as his arms – his seriously impressive, by the way, arms, like what the hell, Peter was never this buff. Does Derek just spend his days scowling his way through grueling workouts? – crossed across his chest defensively.

So Stiles just draws in a slow breath and continues.

“I was thinking we could all do with some sort of reconciliation. Like a… breaking bread, mending fences, get to know you and burying totally metaphorical hatchets type dinner.”

Derek’s gaze drags up at that, and Stiles flashes him a fast grin, warming back up to his own idea.

“So what do you say to a big, no murders allowed, multi-pack Thanksgiving?”

It’s a good idea. An awesome idea. Why had he ever doubted the brilliance of this idea?

Derek blinks at him.

“You realize it’s May, don’t you?”

Stiles’ smile falls.

.-

So maybe it’s May. Maybe the whole “pack Thanksgiving” idea had popped into his head when he was out shopping and saw a sale on turkeys at the grocery store. It’s still a great idea. Derek’s clearly suffering from a lack of imagination, but everyone else will understand.

“…You know it’s May, right?”

Stiles sputters hopelessly, flopping back onto Scott’s bed as his friend frowns at him, quietly puzzled.

“Dude, why is everyone so hung up on what time of year it is?”

“Because you said _Thanksgiving_.” Scott explains reasonably. “It’s like, nowhere near Thanksgiving.”

“Which works out perfectly. Do you seriously think our parents would let us spend actual Thanksgiving with a guy we accused of murder and a bunch of high school runaways?” Stiles pauses, thoughtful. “And _Jackson_?”

“No,” Scott says, slowly. “But then—“

“It’s a _metaphorical_ Thanksgiving. Thanksgiving in spirit. But with real food.” Scott continues to frown at him, looking dubious. “Derek already agreed to it.”

.-

“Scott already agreed to it,” Stiles tries, and hopes his heart’s uneven enough in Derek’s presence already for him not to catch the lie.

(Uneven because _moody Alpha,_ not because… shoot, that whole ‘accidentally asking Derek out’ bit of the evening had really thrown Stiles off his game, hadn’t it?)

Derek snorts.

“Well, we’ve already established that Scott has brilliant ideas.”

And Stiles groans, drifting further into the room.

“Dude. My fist, your face, remember? We’re getting dangerously close to me having to defend my pal’s honor here.”

Derek doesn’t have the decency to pretend to look worried. Of course. The jerk. The stupid, supernaturally strong and fast, probably with stronger bones than the most dedicated milk drinker, jerk.

Stiles could probably kill himself on that jawline.

But he’s getting off topic.

“Look, I figure you’re like the indigenous werewolf here, and Scott went and got turned and started encroaching on your land, trying to do things his own way or whatever. So maybe it’s time for us all to sit down, forget our bad starts, and just get to know each other. Have a nice not-Thanksgiving.”

Derek follows Stiles’ pacing with skeptical eyes.

“You know the Pilgrims basically wiped out the Native Americans.”

“Oh, that is so not the point.” Stiles flops down onto the blackened shell of a couch, fights a cough at the cloud of ash that puffs up around him. Derek seriously needs a new place. With a ceiling, preferably, and real walls. “It’s in the _spirit_ of Thanksgiving. You know, peace and forgiveness and being thankful we all survived the past few months? We’re not aiming for a historical reenactment here.”

“You hope,” Derek mutters darkly, seeming strangely small and drawn in the center of the smokey room. Stiles’ eyes roll toward him.

“Look, man, I’m just trying to help. I mean, your betas are avoiding you, you and Scott get all snarly whenever you hear each other’s names. Isn’t it worth it to at least try calling truce?”

.-

“It’s like…” Stiles muses, “we’re the Native Americans. We were living here, just doing our thing, and Derek came back to town and started trying to take over, get us to do things his way.” Stiles pauses, blinking. He’s sure there had been a convincing argument in there somewhere. “ _But_ the Native Americans, they brought them corn and helped them survive the winter anyway.”

It’s weak and really, pitifully inaccurate, sure. But… _spirit_ of Thanksgiving, guys. And Scott doesn’t call him on it.

“Derek seriously agreed? He wants to mend fences.” The sheer amount of skepticism in Scott’s tone might be insulting if it didn’t mean Stiles was close to a victory. Skeptical or not, Scott’s considering it.

“Hey, Derek’s always been the one all ‘we’re brothers, Scott.’ I think he’s just been waiting for the opportunity to make up.”

Scott’s still grimacing, but in a thoughtful way.

“I’m going to try to get Allison to come,” Stiles adds, and obviously that seals it.

.-

Derek handles the betas’ invites. It turns out that, even though they’re less than thrilled with their whole Alpha situation at the moment, they’re still willing to listen to a direct order when given. Even if that order’s just “come to Stiles’ house to eat way too much pie and turkey.”

…Or maybe especially then.

Lydia’s surprisingly easy to convince, which is a blessing because she’s kind of the lynchpin to pull in Jackson and Allison.

Stiles approaches her about ninety percent sure he’s going to be shot down three words in, but he actually manages to get halfway through his “and we need someone to organize the whole thing, and who better than Lydia Martin” pitch before she rolls her eyes, hands lifting to cut him off.

“Thank god you’re all finally pulling yourselves together. You know Jackson’s first full moon happened last week? He nearly tore apart the basement in my lake house. So I don’t know what little drama Derek Hale has going on and frankly I don’t care. If this dinner helps him get it together so he can actually teach Jackson what he needs to know not to eat people or tear up my walls anymore, I’m on board.”

And she’s already on her phone while she speaks, typing something out with quick, precise fingers before Stiles can get a word in edgewise.

“Your dad’s working Saturday night, isn’t he?” This woman is terrifying. How does she _know_ things like that? “We’ll do it then. Send me a list of foods you want served, and I’ll divvy up the responsibilities and put together an itinerary.”

Which is when Stiles finally manages to cut in.

“…Itinerary?” It’s a dinner. There’s pretty much dinner and then, a comfortable amount of time later, dessert. But Lydia lifts a perfectly arched brow at him, lips pursing.

“What did you expect when you called me into this?”

To which Stiles shrugs idly, wondering if ‘streamers and turkey themed decorations’ is an inappropriate answer. She just rolls her eyes.

"This is an event for everyone to work through their massive, ‘we all tried to kill or maim each other at one point or another’ problems, right? Do you think that’s just going to happen because they eat a meal at the same table?”

Which… yeah, that’d pretty much been the plan. Apparently a terrible plan, if Lydia’s tone could be believed. Stiles turns his attention to other matters.

"…Do I really have to pick out foods? Can’t we just do potluck?"

Lydia’s face shows him exactly what she thinks about that.

.-

“You didn’t actually _threaten_ the betas into coming, did you?” Stiles asks, flopped out across Derek’s ashy couch, scrolling through his phone for stuffing recipes. Across the room, Derek pauses tellingly. “Seriously? _Mending fences,_ dude.”

“What, you want me to say pretty please?”

Stiles has to sit up on his elbows at that, a surprised grin tripping over his lips.

“Oh my god, I’d pay serious money to hear you say pretty please to someone.” Derek huffs, softly and without enough heat behind it to make Stiles back down. “Seriously though. Derek,” and he pauses until Derek looks up from his latest set up pushups… and that view is _not_ why Stiles had decided to do dinner planning here instead of at Scott’s. ok? Derek’s the Alpha, he has the most fences to mend. He needs to be at least semi involved in the planning process.

Even if it’s just by providing a pretty inspiring view while Stiles picks out recipes.

“ _What_?” Derek grits, and Stiles realizes he’d lost track of things, staring.

“I, um…” He glances at his lap, throat clearing and, oh yeah, that’s where his thought train had gone. “You know, the whole snarling orders, dictator-style leadership thing… that’s what made them think about leaving in the first place. They didn’t feel respected, like they had a safe place here. You could try being polite, you know? Pleases, thank yous. I’ve seen you fake manners, I know you know what they are.”

There’s a shift of movement, Derek pushing himself back to his feet, wiping dirty hands off on his jeans (and who the hell works out in skin-tight jeans anyway? If Derek hadn’t already been well into his workout by the time Stiles showed up, he’d almost think the guy was showing off or something).

“Packs don’t function as democracies, Stiles.”

“Packs don’t function if your betas are so miserable they decide to run away either.”

There’s a warning flash of red that makes Stiles grit his teeth, glancing back to his phone. That might've been a step too far.

“Right, so what do you think about cranberries in stuffing? Personally I think they should be separate, but maybe not-actually Thanksgiving would be a good time to experiment. Mix things up, try something new?”

There’s a long enough pause that Stiles decides Derek’s just going to ignore him. He glances up, hoping not to find a set of scowling red eyes – he’s not exactly in the habit of hanging around Derek without a specific crisis at hand (that one time he’d been hiding out in Stiles’ bedroom aside) and he’s starting to wonder if it’d been a good idea to just show up here without backup. Or witnesses.

Ways to get yourself torn apart in Beacon Hills: drop into the moody Alpha’s house alone and uninvited, and start insulting his leadership strategies.

But Derek’s scowling at a wall, not at Stiles, and eventually lets out a sharp huff.

“It doesn’t matter what we eat.”

And Stiles honestly might have a death wish, because something as simple as that pushes him right back to antagonization mode. He’s back on his feet a second later, holding out the phone full of recipes.

“ _You’re_ the Alpha, Derek. All the betas around town, they’re looking to _you_ to step up, to make an effort to fix things. You could try being involved.”

“This was your idea, not mine.”

Which just… is the stupidest…

“Because I want things to be _better_ ,” Stiles grits, stalking forward. “I don’t want you all at each other’s throats anymore, ok? Scott’s my best friend, and you—”

“I _what_ , Stiles? What about me?”

Stiles feels his throat go thick, words choking back strangely the second they rise up. …And when the hell had he gotten this close to Derek’s face? His eyes are bright, gold and green and flecked with anger, and… oh god, Stiles’ free hand is fisted in his shirt. Tugging the thin fabric, pulling as though he has a chance of moving Derek, holding him here if he decides to leave.

He backs down, slowly, warily. Hand unclenching, gaze slipping down as he smoothes out the fabric with slow, apologetic fingers. And then he plans on letting go, he really does, but there’s still a hint of a rumple, here and there where the fabric had stretched. And Derek doesn’t move away either, and he isn’t snapping out any threats, and somehow not pulling back, not disturbing the moment, feels right.

Stiles draws in a breath, words slipping out strangely easy.

“You deserve more than this, ok? Being alone in this burnt out house. You deserve a pack, a chance to try and fix things.”

They hover there for a few seconds, Stiles’ fingers drifting in odd, shocky movements over Derek’s heart. He feels Derek shift like he’s going to move away… and then stall, strangely unsure.

“I don’t…” It’s almost a whisper, slipping from Derek’s mouth. A confession, quiet enough to be kept between them, a secret even the walls can’t quite hear. “Stiles, I haven’t done Thanksgiving since I was fifteen.”

Stiles’ eyes float up. His fingers are buzzing strangely, and he’s not sure what to do with Derek’s words. Standing in the shell of a house where most of his family had died, where he’d apparently celebrated his last Thanksgiving over six years ago.

Derek’s mind seems to be on the same track. He’s strangely young suddenly under Stiles’ gaze, shifting against his hand in the shadowed room.

“Laura and I, we never… it never felt right, just the two of us.”

_Stiles’ dad standing in the kitchen with a frozen turkey in front of him, a lost look in his eyes._

This is more than Stiles has ever been handed about Derek’s life... by Derek, anyway. The familiarity of it, the echo of his own loss, makes his fingers clench against Derek’s chest again.

They’d ended up at the McCalls’ for Thanksgiving, the year of his mom’s death and every year after. But Derek and Laura hadn’t had anyone else. And now it’s just Derek.

God, this was such a stupid idea.

“We don’t have to… This doesn’t…”

“No, it’s good.” Derek’s face is right there, and Stiles should probably be more surprised by the way the shocky feeling’s spreading up his arm, his whole body, by the way his eyes catch and hold on Derek’s mouth like he wouldn’t be able to make out his words without watching it. And maybe he wouldn’t, because the silence of the room is loud suddenly, too loud for Derek’s soft, strangely intimate voice. Stiles’ blood is rushing in his ears; he wonders if Derek can hear it.

His eyes flick back up to Derek’s, find them still strangely soft. Fragile. Searching along the planes of Stiles’ face like maybe he sees something familiar in them too.

He catches Stiles watching; his lips twitch, almost a smile.

“Fresh start, right?”

How had this happened? How had this moment become… _this?_

Stiles’ thumb shifts, a startled little twitch of motion, and he swears their breaths catch in sync.

“Fresh start,” he echoes after too many seconds. Derek’s ears must be doing that rushing thing too, because his eyes are locked on Stiles’ mouth.

Stiles’ tongue darts out, fast and instinctive, and Derek’s gaze skitters away. There’s a few fast, tripping heartbeats, Stiles leaning slowly, thoughtlessly forward…

“Dessert.” It spills out fast and too loud from Derek’s mouth, shocking Stiles right out of his momentum. He frowns wordlessly, trying to even his heartbeat as the older man clears his throat. The room’s too dark with dusk falling to really tell, but Stiles could swear his neck’s going flushed. “We’ll have to make desserts at some point. The day before?”

“Together?” Because Stiles’ hand is still on Derek’s chest, and his brain is doing things with the word ‘dessert’ that it really shouldn’t be doing.

Or maybe should be doing. Should definitely, absolutely be doing, if the way Derek’s next breath goes a little shuddery means anything. He swallows, gaze flitting around the room like he’s looking for an escape… but he’s not moving out of Stiles’ space.

He could move back. He could so definitely move back if he wanted to.

“You wanted me involved, right?” Derek adds a few heartbeats later. Stiles makes a little sound that’s probably assent, but his brain is circling the word ‘involved’ now. Prodding it, pulling it apart. Derek _involved_ with Stiles. Them _involved_ with each other. “Well, I can’t do it here.”

Derek’s doing this on purpose, he has to be. And Stiles’ thumb is moving again, slow and absent little circles, and his body shifts half a step forward without thinking about it… and Derek still hasn’t pushed him off.

“Right,” he murmurs, a little breathless, his head filling up fast with thoughts and ideas, with ‘involved’ and ‘do it’ and the way Derek’s eyes had gone soft at the memory of his family, the way he’d started to seem like an actual person.

A person Stiles could relate to. A person who’s not just a bad attitude, weirdly hot stubble, arms that could lift Stiles like he weighed absolutely nothing and an ass that can’t even be rated.

Derek’s couch is _right there_ behind him.

“Can’t do it here,” he says, almost to himself. His eyes flit down to the ash on Derek’s jeans. “It’s a mess here. Dirty.”

Derek’s eyes are back on him, on his own chest, on the slowly moving thumb.

“And the stove doesn’t work.”

“Uh-hn.” Stiles thinks maybe they’re having two different conversations at this point. Thinks if Derek doesn’t recognize that, he’s being willfully blind or a fucking idiot. “You should come by my place then. Friday. While my dad’s out.”

They hover there for an uncertain second, Stiles’ whole hand massaging now, slow and not vaguely subtle, against Derek’s chest. Derek’s gaze caught on Stiles’ mouth, lips parted like he doesn’t remember what words are.

And then he blinks, coming back to himself sharply. Shoulders straightening, jaw going tight, becoming less young, less vulnerable, right in front of Stiles’ eyes. As he pushes Stiles gently but firmly back behind the wall he’d somehow slipped around without meaning to, past the hard Alpha veil Derek throws up so easily.

It feels wrong suddenly, this unfamiliar closeness. Derek’s personal bubble going back up with a vengeance, forcing Stiles slowly, physically backward. His hand drops.

Derek’s still looking at him, but there are shades over his eyes now – whatever vulnerability he’d been showing, whatever he might have wanted or thought he wanted or entertained the brief notion of wanting has slipped away or gotten buried back under it like it never happened.

“No cranberries in the stuffing,” he says, a few awkward beats later. “No experimenting. Go home, Stiles. I’ll see you after school on Friday.”

Stiles moves back toward the door. The walls are mocking him, he just knows it.

“Right.” His house. For desserts. “We’ll make pies.”

.-

And somehow, that easy, he’s making pies with Derek Hale.

…And Isaac, Erica, and Boyd.

So yeah, turns out it was a good thing “dessert” hadn’t ended up being code for Things Stiles Isn’t Thinking About, because part of Lydia’s itinerary had apparently ended up being ‘bonding while making the food together.’

It’s not going all that well, to be honest. See Exhibit A: one pissed off Alpha standing off to the side, getting tenser and tenser while the betas muddle their way through a recipe.

He’s been expressly forbidden from spitting out orders - a rule he’s, wonder of wonders, actually sticking to - but he seems to have no clue how else to interact with his betas.

Erica’s not exactly helping with her derisive glances and eye-rolling comments about ‘the warden.’ Boyd’s not responding in a way Erica seems to take as agreement, and Isaac keeps shooting little, half-apologetic, half-expectant looks Derek’s way, like he’s waiting for him to suddenly shape up and make things right.

Stiles, perched at the edge of the far counter, eventually gets sick of watching the pack continue to crumble right here in his kitchen.

"Hey, you could try helping, you know."

Derek aims an edgy look his way.

"I _tried_. They’re doing it wrong and they won’t…”

"They would if you weren’t barking orders at them. …That’s not…" He falters as four sets of skeptical eyes turn toward him. "That wasn’t a dog joke, just… shut up." The betas go back to their work. Stiles makes out a snort that he decides had come from Boyd.

But he’s focused on Derek right now - sliding off the counter, crossing the room and grabbing a fresh mixing bowl, waving it in his face.

"Fine, ok? You don’t play well with others. Doesn’t mean you don’t have to participate like the rest of the class." When Derek just blinks at the bowl, then back at him: "We’ll make our own pie."

It turns out it’s not actually that bad - standing next to Derek on the far counter, watching him measure out flour with precise eyes and not so much as a glance at the printed up recipes.

Right around the time Derek’s rolling out dough into an almost perfect circle on the floured counter, Stiles starts thinking maybe Derek had suggested doing desserts for an actual reason. Like… a _Derek Hale knows how to bake_ reason.

"So level with me," Stiles murmurs, trying not to focus on the little dot of flour on Derek’s cheek and how it makes him look all strangely soft and _personly_ again. “You’re just making this up as you go, right? You’re trying to look all cool and impressive for the betas, but when this comes out of the oven it’ll be straight into the garbage and hope no one notices it’s missing, right?”

Derek’s lips twitch. His eyes are focused on the dough, the way he’s pulling it expertly onto the rolling pin and laying it out neatly in the pie tray. It doesn’t tear or crumble or anything.

"I used to make pies with my dad. Mom cooked the dinner but dessert was kind of our thing. Haven’t done it since—" And all at once whatever spell the kitchen has placed over Derek shatters and he cuts off, jaw going tight.

The betas have all stopped moving at their counter, staring at Derek like they hadn’t ever thought of him as a person who’d had parents, much less made pies with them. Derek drops the rolling pin to the counter and takes a step back, staring at the dough in the pan like he doesn’t remember how it got there, looking for all the world like he might bolt.

Then Boyd, bless him, cuts in, smooth and easy: “Hey Derek, this recipe calls for condensed milk. Can we just use normal milk and a shitload of sugar?”

Derek’s shoulders untense with a snort. It goes almost smoothly after that.

.-

"You know it’s still May, right Stilinski?" is the first thing out of Jackson’s mouth as he steps through the doorway, unceremoniously dropping a bag of chips in Stiles’ arms.

Stiles’ eyes roll, flitting back to the doorway because Lydia would definitely not let him get away with bringing _chips_ to Thanksgiving dinner.

"Glad you’ve finally figured out how a calendar works. Did your master let you off her leash?" Which is just a dog joke, slipping off his tongue quick, easy, and thoughtless. He’s not expecting the way Jackson flinches, eyes flitting around warily. It's surprising and kind of pitiful and... huh, Stiles doesn’t really think of Jackson as enough of a human being to actually suffer any kind of post-trauma. "Where’s Lydia," he amends quickly.

Jackson pulls himself together fast, brushing off his moment of panic as he slides off his jacket and looks around like he’s not sure there’s anywhere in Stiles’ house he feels safe putting it.

"Coming over with Allison. Apparently she didn’t think she’d make it here otherwise. Which, probably a good thing. Us werewolves, her hunter. Remember?"

“‘Her’ your girlfriend’s best friend, remember?” Stiles tugs Jackson’s coat away and pointedly drops it over the arm of the couch before shoving his chips back in his arms. “Go socialize with the other puppies, Jackson.”

He doesn’t flinch, even a little, when Jackson’s eyes flash blue as he stalks past.

.-

He doesn’t actually have to worry about Jackson, because Derek somehow swoops in (when had he even gotten here anyway?) and drags him out back. Stiles sees them talking in the yard, low and even, angry and red-faced, for nearly twenty minutes before Jackson slinks back inside, seeming strangely thoughtful.

In the meantime Allison has shown up, Scott’s made a huge deal about welcoming her, and even Boyd nodded and offered “Hey Allison,” which Stiles is pretty sure is singularly responsible for Erica not attacking her on sight.

So: private arguments, unspoken rivalries, and that one dick cousin you just have to invite anyway. Sounds like every Thanksgiving Stiles has ever seen on TV.

.-

They’re halfway through dinner when Lydia stands up, clinking her glass in a way she manages to make seem clear and authoritative, and not at all over the top.

"Alright, now that we’ve all had a chance to get settled…" Despite Lydia’s decision to assign seating, there had still been more than one skirmish about who would sit next to who. Derek had looked like he’d rather eat standing in a corner than sitting at all, especially when he’d seen his place card right next to Scott’s, and that rising battle had only been resolved when Stiles pointedly swapped his own card, putting himself in between them. "In the spirit of Thanksgiving, we’re not going to spend tonight airing out all our grievances. God knows, we could go all night like that once we got started… and I haven’t been involved in all this nearly long enough to know half the things you’ve all done to each other. So instead, we’ll be playing Thanksgiving hot potato. You tell someone something you’re thankful to them for, and then they have to say something about you, and about one new person at the table. And it keeps going, and no one skips their turn. Understood?"

"What if we’re not grateful for anything?" This of course, comes from Jackson, who earns himself an icy grin from his girlfriend.

"Then you’ll just have to dig a little deeper, sweetheart. _Now_. I am thankful to the beautiful Allison for being my best friend and listening to me complain about my insensitive boyfriend, and for coming here tonight.” She smiles at Allison before sitting down neatly, napkin folding over her lap.

Allison, her for part, looks shocked at having the torch passed to her so early in the game, and lowers her eyes. Stiles can feel Scott shifting hopefully next to him, but isn’t exactly surprised when she comes back with a simple: “Thank you to Lydia for convincing me to come, and being there for me when I was new in school, and after what happened with my mom. And thanks to Stiles for putting this all together.”

Scott deflates next to him, and Stiles feels for him for all of half a second before he realizes the ball’s in his court now.

"Any chance we could just bond over charades?" He’d _pay_ to see Derek playing charades.

And speaking of Derek… but no, Derek’s definitely something he needs to build to. And he doesn't want the guy bolting ten seconds into their first bonding activity, anyway. Which, face it, is more than a little likely if someone's asking him to share his _feelings._ So Stiles keeps his gaze away, doesn't glance at him while he thanks Allison for all the times she’s loaned him notes for history (which makes her dimple and Lydia’s eyes narrow), and tosses one out to Boyd for loaning him keys to the ice skating rink that one time. Lydia and Jackson both look tense, Allison’s eyes dart to Scott, and Scott makes an actual hopeful puppy sound before she looks away again. Boyd just tosses back an easy thanks for the cash Stiles had given him for the key, and passes the torch over to Erica.

Erica thanks Jackson with a too bright smile for a vaguely described “dance." It’s probably meant to get under Lydia’s skin… or maybe just to corner Jackson, who looks around the table like he would rather go full on kanima again than thank any of them for anything. Finally, glaring at his plate:

"Thanks to Derek for agreeing to train me, no strings." Which leaves Derek looking cornered instead, and sends everyone else for a loop.

Scott’s leaning past Stiles, staring.

"No strings?"

Derek shifts under their gazes, glaring at Jackson like he might just rescind the offer.

"He doesn’t have to be in my pack afterward. I just… I bit him, it’s my responsibility to make sure he has control."

The admission comes out low and tense. He looks like he’s vibrating out of his skin.

Stiles shifts, bumping their elbows.

"That’s really cool of you, man."

And Scott flops backward, seeming thoughtful.

The room goes quiet after that, until Lydia prompts: “Derek?”

"Thanks to Jackson for hearing me out tonight." Which is probably about the best thing anyone could come up with about Jackson. But then Derek stops, quiet and tense, until Stiles bumps his elbow again.

Derek’s eyes flick up, and for a second there’s a tightness in Stiles’ chest - butterflies, anticipation. But Derek just swallows, eyes moving away toward his betas.

"Thanks to Isaac for not running away when the others did." It’s a backhanded compliment and they all know it. The goodwill they'd managed to build up evaporates, and all hell breaks loose.

.-

It goes on like that for a few minutes - admissions that are as sharp and bitter as they are sincere. And maybe it all needs to be said, maybe the idea of just forgiving and moving forward had been a naive one anyway.

Erica to Allison - “Thanks for shooting us up in the woods. I needed more experience being in agonizing pain, that was lovely.”

Allison to Scott - “Thanks for keeping me in the dark for so long. It wouldn’t have helped at all to know why my family hated you or anything.”

Scott, frustration turning in a hot wave toward Derek - “Thanks for teaching me exactly how _not_ to behave as a werewolf. It’s really great to have such a terrible role model.”

Which had of course led, from Derek to Scott - “Thanks for using me against Gerard when I was paralyzed.”

There's a hot, tense pause at that, before Scott, jumping the gun on his next turn - “You _should_ be. It was a good plan, it saved everyone.” And then, his hand going up to jab straight at Stiles, the innocent bystander in the middle: “You know who I _am_ thankful for? Stiles. My best friend. Who’s actually been there for me and helped me ever since I got turned.”

Derek’s hands are going clawed, and Stiles starts to wonder if his house had been the best place to host a werewolf pow-pow. Score marks in the table will be the least of his problems if things go bad here.

"I would’ve helped you if you’d ever actually—"

It's gone far enough.

"Hey, no!" Stiles cuts in, self preservation be damned, waving his hands between the two scowling werewolves. "That’s not how the game goes. Scott tapped me, my turn."

Derek scowls but goes silent, head ducking while Stiles thinks.

"Alright, first off: I’m thankful to Scott for being my best friend, my brother. For not ditching me when he suddenly became Mr. Superpowered Popular Wolfman. And for always trying to do the right thing, no matter what." He pauses, thoughtful, before adding: "Even though he’s sometimes distracted by how completely in love with Allison he is."

That with a pointed nod to the girl. She lets out a slow breath and catches Scott’s eyes again. Stiles swears he sees a hint of a smile.

"And…" Here goes nothing: "Thank you to Derek, for being there for me every time Scott couldn’t. For working with us even after we accused him of murder, and looking out for us in his completely creepy, stalker-tastic way. And for letting me help him sometimes. Trusting me with that." He lets that hang there for a few seconds because, yeah, Derek trusts him. After that confession at the house, the easy admission over pie making. Derek _trusts_ him, and Stiles knows exactly how rare a thing that is. He clears his throat when the air starts to get too heavy. “And for always trying to do the right thing, even if he and Scott don’t always agree on what that is.”

Derek’s eyes have gone from the table back to Stiles’ face. Quiet and searching, with a hint of that strange vulnerability he’d seen a few days ago back at the Hale house.

And this is exactly why Stiles had put off going for Derek before, because now all that’s just _hanging_ there in the air between them, and Derek’s looking at him like he’s not totally sure he should believe the compliments. And who knows what he’ll decide to say back. ...If he’ll decide to say anything back.

Seconds are ticking by, and nothing’s forming on Derek’s faintly parted lips.

Stiles wishes he could just shove some words into Derek’s mouth because, damn it, Derek has _plenty_ to be grateful for. How about the two hours holding him up in the pool? How about hiding Derek in his bedroom while his dad was on a manhunt for him? Being willing, however reluctantly, to _chop off Derek’s arm_ when he'd asked? He could come up with a whole list of things, a boatload of things, a Nina, Pinta, and Santa freaking Maria full of things for Derek to thank Stiles for, damn it.

But as he starts to go flushed, as he starts to entertain possibilities of just ducking away to the kitchen, as the rest of the group is starting to shift as though they can just _feel_ Stiles’ discomfort, Derek’s hand moves to catch at his elbow, holding him in place.

"Thank you for… caring." He murmurs it soft, slow, intimate enough that the walls can’t quite hear. (Though Stiles is sure the room full of werewolves can.) He almost expects a flinch after that, a recoil. Another fast retreat once Derek realizes what’s slipped out.

But he just sits there, clutching Stiles’ elbow, looking at him soft and imploring like he needs some confirmation he hasn’t imagined it.

"I do,” Stiles says back simply. That easy.

And Derek’s blinking fast, looking down, like that little admission’s more than he’d ever expected from anyone.

A few more seconds pass, before Erica’s throat clears.

"Thanks to Derek for turning me. I… I’d probably be in the hospital right now without the bite, or dead. Without even getting a chance to fight for it. So whatever other crap came out of this, at least now I’m strong enough to handle what comes at me."

Derek looks up like he’d forgotten the others were there. His hand doesn’t move from Stiles’ elbow.

"Thanks for coming back,” he says back. “That couldn’t have been easy."

And that kicks off a new, gentler round of confessions. Most tentatively spoken, awkward, with averted eyes. But it gets easier as they go on. And by the time they’re up to pie they’ve mostly slipped into other topics. Strangely… or not so strangely, relaxed in each others’ presence.

Until Scott swallows a bite of pumpkin and says:

"Derek… I guess I never realized how much you and Stiles had each others’ backs. So… thanks for looking out for him."

Derek shrugs, a twitch of motion that’s almost careless. Almost _of course, why wouldn’t I?_ And Stiles feels himself grinning into his pie.

"Thanks for stopping Gerard." Derek says it without looking, but he says it. And just like that, Scott and Derek rivalry resolved. Or at least, on its way to it.

And Stiles is a lot closer to understanding why that’s so important than he had been at the start of the week. Derek’s arm has been brushing his - light and fast and so deceptively casual - throughout the meal, and his leg has been a permanent warm pressure against Stiles’ thigh since they’d started dessert. And it still feels shocky and strange and comfortable all at the same time.

When dessert’s done, the pies just a memory, he’s not even slightly surprised to find himself announcing: “And I’m thankful to Derek for volunteering to stay behind and do dishes.”

Derek looks up, a little startled, but clips out a quick nod even as Scott says “But Lydia’s itinerary says that I—”

"Nah man, Derek thinks you should probably go talk things out with Allison."

Derek’s lips twitch, his eyes locked on Stiles.

"That’s thoughtful of me." And Stiles finds himself grinning back.

"You’re a thoughtful guy, under that brooding exterior." Derek’s ears definitely tinge pink at that, but he doesn’t look down.

"Well, Stiles thinks the betas should bring Jackson back to the rail yard, start teaching him to control his shift."

"Yeah, wow, that’s a really smart idea I had. And Derek thinks Lydia should—"

"Lydia should go home," Lydia cuts in, and Stiles can just _hear_ her eyes rolling. Somehow he can’t bring himself to care. “And give herself a well deserved facial after dealing with your wolf drama all week.”

The rest of the pack clears out, easy nods and soft, tentative smiles. And then Stiles’ hand has found its way up to Derek’s chest… and Derek’s eyes are back on his mouth.

And if Stiles’ dad just sighs and doesn’t question the piles of unwashed dishes sitting at the table when he gets home from work… well, Stiles is thankful for that too.

**Author's Note:**

> [Come find me on Tumblr](http://halekingsourwolf.tumblr.com)


End file.
